HERB BENHAM: Thief should be making license plates, not stealing them
| Monday, Nov 28 2011 05:01 PM
Last Updated Monday, Nov 28 2011 05:03 PM
It had probably been a couple of days since it happened. I hadn't noticed. How often do you check your license plate?
I'll be. Somebody stole the license plate on my 1991 Honda Accord. The plate was encased in a Houchin Blood Bank frame with a 2011 sticker on it.
This car was my dad's pride and joy. Although he is still alive, a Subaru made the Honda superfluous, especially in the four-wheel drive climate in which he lives.
He garaged the car. Years ago, he had Red Harden repaint it and Red did his usual miraculous, show-quality job. The color was a charcoal gray.
Dad put a black car bra over the front end. Two beautiful, thick gleaming-white sheepskins hug the front seats. He wrapped a leather lace cover around the steering wheel, which almost invites a pair of deerskin driving gloves.
Even though this two-door Honda is 20 years old, I get some looks in that car. Not from girls, but boys. The other day at a stop light, a guy offered to buy the bra, and his friend wanted to buy the car. He wrote down his name.
"If you ever want to sell, give me a call," he said longingly.
I don't blame him. The car has a fast-and-furious feel. It's peppy.
Speed aside, I like the car because I can feel the care my dad lavished on it.
"It has soul," my mom said, and she doesn't even like cars.
When I bought the Honda from Dad eight months ago, he took me on a ride. The ride was part show-and-tell and part saying goodbye to his jewel.
"I think I had it up to 120 years ago in the middle of the desert," he said proudly, although in hushed tones as if somebody might be listening.
I felt honored. Connected. The 1991 Honda Accord with the bra and the sheepskins always makes me feel as though he were sitting in the seat next to me.
Who steals a license plate? Who stole my neighbor's Crocs? Who stole the wool hat and wool gloves I stashed by the side of Bena Road 20 years ago?
Questions without answers, hands without mittens and now a car without a license plate. I wondered if they were coming for the car next. They had the plate, a plate that would look better on a Honda with a bra.
A few days later, I went to the police department to report the theft. I like going to headquarters. Especially if my kids aren't there, and they haven't been close to there for a long time now.
The police department delivers the slice of life that a namby-pamby like me needs occasionally. It's like walking onto the set of "Hill Street Blues." It gives you a good solid gritty feel.
The clerk ushered me to a computer and introduced me to their new computer reporting system. That meant I wouldn't be able to sit with the people and trade stories about our crimes, bad luck and misunderstood lives.
By the time I was done with the report, I was almost a staff sergeant. I was one arrest away from a uniform and a squad car. "Boys, be careful out there -- it's dangerous.
I haven't heard anything yet. I'm not worried. I still have the car, the car bra and my dad.
That's like winning the triple crown.
These are the opinions of Herb Benham, not necessarily those of The Californian. Email him at hbenham@bakersfield.com
